#featuring time travel and Maedhros's attempts to manage his parents

[sweetteaanddragons]

Stepford Smiles and Time Travel Wiles

Another fic I never got around to crossposting!

Featuring time travelling. Unfortunately, for most of the characters, they don't know that.

The door had scarcely closed when Feanaro rounded on Maitimo, eyes blazing. “You see?” he demanded.

Maitimo, for his part, was too busy blinking at the door his mother had just departed through to answer for a moment. “I see,” he agreed when he had gathered his wits. “Or I glimpse, at least. Atar, what happened?”

His father had abandoned his chair at the dining table to pace furiously in front of the windows. “She returned two days ago,” he said, gesturing toward the hall. “She has been like this ever since. About everything.”

”Everything?”

“If I declare Nolofinwe treacherous, she decries him and his mother. If I say the Valar are untrustworthy, she rants on the foolishness of giving ear to Melkor. If I speak of making swords - “ There Feanaro paused. “There we disagree,” he conceded. “She has been scolding me for not practicing with mine enough. She demanded one of her own and has been devoted to it since; she wonders that I do not do the same.”

When he had first learned she had left his father, Maitimo had felt as if the world was opening beneath his feet.

Somehow, this was not the relief he would have expected.

“Perhaps she changed her mind,” he said tentatively.

“I admired a song of Lauriel’s, and she praised it to high heaven,” his father said harshly.

Ah. His mother would never be rude enough to publicly express an outright distaste for any work made by a protege of Makalaure’s, but Maitimo was not the public, and he could be trusted to know what to keep from his brothers.

His mother could, of course, change her mind on multiple things at once.

But.

The energy that had propelled his father left him in a rush, and he crumpled against the wall, running a hand over his face. “I know she still wrote to you,” he said wearily. It was the first time he had acknowledged this. “Did anything she write . . . ?”

“We didn’t write of politics,” Maitimo said carefully. “Her art, mainly. Tyelpe’s latest projects. That sort of thing.”

His brothers’ projects as well, though that was a more careful line to dance; some of them would not be happy to know news of them had been passed on.

He had written of his father’s work, what little of it wasn’t political. She had never commented on it.

“But she was well?” his father demanded. “The separation didn’t - didn’t burden her fea?”

“It pained her, of course,” Maitimo said, even more carefully than before. “But I had no thought it would drive her to Lorien. It is not as if the bond was broken.”

“No,” his father agreed, abandoning the wall to slump into the closest chair - the one across from Maitimo, instead of his usual place at the head of the table. “No.” He frowned at where one of Grandmother’s tapestries hung on the wall, staring at it as if it held all the secrets of Amil’s heart woven within. “It is not like her,” he said plaintively.

It wasn’t, Maitimo agreed fervently, even if it was only in the privacy of his mind. When his father had half invited, half demanded his presence at supper tonight and said it was about Amil, he had expected anything but this.

“She may have just wished to reconcile,” he suggested soothingly.

Too soothingly; his father looked up sharply, biting words all but visibly forming on his lips before he swallowed them back and waved dismissively. “I should not have involved you in this,” he said instead. “It is not your burden to carry.”

His mother had expressed similar sentiments to him before in one of her letters. Maitimo heartily wished she had not; it had preceded a significant restriction in the information she passed on, and he could not fix what he did not know about.

“If something is wrong with Amil, it is all of our concern,” he said, retreating from ‘soothing’ to ‘rationality.’ “Or if something is right, it is all of our joy. I’m very glad you invited me to supper tonight; even with this . . . puzzle . . . it was good to see her again.”

This reassured his father as his other statement had not. “She wanted to see you,” his father said. “Desperately.”

This was not a surprising revelation. His mother had flung herself at him as soon as he entered the doorway and had not let go of his arm throughout supper. He thought she would be here still if Lauriel had not stopped by with word that Makalaure had safely returned from Alqualonde and was back at his own house in the city. Amil had not been content to wait for his and Aranel’s inevitable morning visit and had immediately gone to welcome them back.

His other brothers, he suspected, would receive a similar treatment when they returned from the various tasks their father had sent them on. He would have to see if he could send word to them first; he trusted Makalaure’s reception of this turn of events, but some of the others might need a few gentle nudges not to let their feelings about Amil’s departure get in the way of her return.

“If she is feeling so agreeable, have you tried asking her about this change of heart?” he tried.

His father shrugged defeatedly. “She said she had thought about what the next few years of her life would look like, and that she had decided that she couldn’t afford to waste time on the ice.”

Maitimo knew poets sometimes compared difficult relationships to ice. He had never considered his parent’s relationship in those terms, even over the last few years; he had tended to lean more towards ‘volcanic.’

“I wrote to Mahtan,” his father added abruptly. “She must have said something to him and Liriel before her departure; if it gave them reason for concern, surely . . . “

“Of course,” Maitimo agreed and made a mental note to write himself. His grandfather had retreated from Atar as tensions rose, but he wrote to his grandchildren as often as ever.

Or perhaps he should write to his grandmother instead; that way if Mahtan chose not to reply to his father’s letter there would be less of an obvious contrast.

There was reason for concern, as much as he hated to admit it, whether or not his grandparents had caught it. Amil had been almost as manic as Atar in one of his moods tonight, her usual quiet passion transformed into something too loud, too bright, too fierce.

Like magnesium burning so, so bright for just a moment, and then -

No. She was in Tirion again; that was good. She was back, and she was talking to Atar again, and Maitimo could set to work smoothing the way for everything to fall back into familiar shapes.

“I’ll talk to Makalaure in the morning,” he told his father. “He might have picked up on something. We’ll work this out; you’ll see.”

Things were one step closer to being as they should be; he wouldn’t let them fall apart again now.

Notes:

Meanwhile, Nerdanel’s perspective: Do I agree with Feanaro? No. But did arguing with him work last time? Also no. So if I am going to save my idiot family, I am going to have to go with them, and I am not risking getting left behind when they take off, so . . . time to let my husband pretend he married Farande. Feanaro, not so quietly sulking: I don’t want to be married to Farande. Nerdanel, oblivious: This is going great!